


A Study In Twilight

by hamartiaaaa



Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Benriya | Handymen (Gangsta), Canon: Gangsta. (Anime 2015), Canon: Gangsta. (Manga 2011), Character Study, Eye Trauma, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, Slow Burn, Trauma, Twilights (Gangsta)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24841081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamartiaaaa/pseuds/hamartiaaaa
Summary: Look man. Idk. But I found this show,,, and fell in love.This is just as rough as most of my work, rip.
Relationships: Worick Arcangelo/Nicolas Brown
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look man. Idk. But I found this show,,, and fell in love.
> 
> This is just as rough as most of my work, rip.

“Nicolas... _Nicolas!_ _Fuck_ — I don’t know why I bother.”

A bitter lie, as it happens. Not that it matters— Nicolas is too far ahead to notice, and between the two of them it would only have fallen to one set of ears. Worick thrusts out his fist toward the slab of wall on his right and it connects sharply, with enough force to just barely split the skin. Just enough to leave him gritting and hissing through his teeth. A tremor is all he can hope for.

It must have worked— he watches Nicolas falter in his stride; lilt his head in a familiar manner before reluctantly slowing. It’s enough for Worick to pick up his pace despite the discomfort of fatigue.

“For someone so _short_ ,” he bites— the Twilight turns with a deadened yet equally pinched expression that melts away at the sight of him. He takes an exaggerated breath as he closes the space between them; throws an arm haphazardly across Nicolas’ shoulders and leans wholly against him as if proving a point. The man’s expression doesn’t change— neither does he stagger under his weight, which by now is to be expected ( but is still a little surprising given the man’s stature and his own bulk ). He grins, watches Nicolas’ gaze fall and tilts his face so that he might have a better view. “You’re too fast,” he huffs, petulantly. “I can’t keep up.”

“Mm.” Nicolas lifts a hand to point at him. _You_ — then he reaches over to touch his arm and drag a finger up a bit of it. _Slow_ , he declares. _I go— We meet later_.

The grin slips. Worick opts instead to wrinkle his nose and squeeze the man in his grasp lightly. He brings his own hand up to meet the other in front of the man’s face— two fists, thumbs raised— and thrusts them outward.

_Together_.

_You_ , Nicolas repeats, with an exaggerated movement that brings him to jab his companion on the nose. _Slow_. _We meet._

Worick’s face contorts almost incredulously, and also a little bit pained by the display of not-quite-affection. “Fine,” he relents tersely. “Just— be careful, Nic. Wait for me if you can.”

Nicolas doesn’t deign this with a response, verbal or otherwise, but a lazy grin stretches across his features, in lieu of a comforting gesture, as he pries himself from his grasp. They both know he won’t wait, he almost never does.

“Don’t make this more trouble than it’s worth,” he pleads, but the Twilight’s back is   
already turned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow wow, an update

Nicolas’ blood is warm and slick on his hands, but his grip on the man’s wrist is sure, and the hand set against the socket of his shoulder is firm. The knee keeping him pressed to the pavement isn’t enough to hurt him— none of it is, not that it would matter— only enough to keep him from getting back up. The heaving of his lungs is enough for Worick to know that he’s coming down— that, and the fight sluggishly bleeding out of him along with the sword that tumbles to the ground with a faint clatter.

  
The Twilight’s cheek is pressed uncomfortably to the ground, though his gaze is drawn upward as much as he can manage.

“M...” The sword man rasps. His gaze dulls, almost imperceptibly ( almost apologetic, but not quite ). “M...ad.”

Worick huffs and turns to give Nico a better view of his face.

“Not mad,” he reassures, despite his frown. It’s strange to think that the Twilight might worry about him being _upset_ of all things— although... it really isn’t, if he gives it some thought. “You’re hurt.”

“N...ot,” Nicolas manages slowly, fitting the words carefully through the near-feral grin overcoming his features. “As h...urt. As... them.”

“You have a hole in your side,” Worick points out, even as his gaze lifts. He says nothing else, seeing as there’s no point while his partner doesn’t have his lips within sight, settles instead for picking apart the scene before him and swallowing down the heart that made home in his throat.

Nicolas had made quick work of them, as he always did— no tags from what Worick could see, although that wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Nic was unparalleled, despite his unfortunate disposition. As time passes, and his breathing settles, he goes near-boneless in Worick’s hold— so he takes this as a sign to release his wrist— which thumps to the ground with a quiet thud— and bring his hand up to smooth the man’s hair from his face instead. It’s likely, he thinks, that the bullet wound was an unfortunate stroke of luck on his opponent’s part.

That, or it came from behind, from a man his partner couldn’t see.

Nico sighs— he feels, more than hears it.

He lowers his head to his partner, slack against the cracking pavement with his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

It’s obvious that he’s tired, eyes half mast and attention elsewhere, which is far from unusual after coming down from a bout of Celebre. Maybe he’s feeling the aftermath of the fight. Maybe he’s feeling the wound in his side searing as he bleeds out sluggishly.The damp, sticky sensation of his own blood dripping down toward his stomach. Worick smooths his hair back again— maybe that’s weird. An act of intimacy best behind the drawn curtains of Doctor Theo’s clinic, instead of this decrepit city’s filthy allies, while Nico is dead to the world and snoring softly. While his cared for wounds pull themselves together in the dark beneath white cotton sheets.

Or maybe there’s no place for it at all; maybe the Twilight is every bit the unfeeling monster everyone makes them out to be, and his acts are pointless.

“I...m sor...ry,” says the boy. Wallace is too busy counting the bandages— too busy wondering how he can even bare to stand ( he’d been sure the boy on the pallet was him— still bitterly recalls how easily he was ready to mourn ). He thrusts something towards him. A tattered book, the one he gave him weeks ago. “I... ruined it.”

“Nico,” he murmurs. Nothing. Not that he really expected anything different. He makes to shift himself off, instead— kneel beside the man instead of on him— and pull his hand down to pinch his cheek. “Nicoooo.”

“Mm.”

Worick lowers himself further; settles his hand against the side of his partner’s face as he falls into his sights. “I need to move you,” he says. “I’m going to take you to the good doctor’s clinic, how’s that sound?”

He’s not sure if he’s caught it all, but at this point it doesn’t matter. With a great deal of trouble he wedges an arm between his partner and the ground, pulls him up into a seated position and then shifts until one of his arms are settled firmly across his shoulders before making a grab for his weapon. It’s slow work. Made slower by Nico’s sluggish and frankly unhelpful grabbing and tugging and stumbling— not to mention that he has to practically hunch himself over for the sake of keeping him upright.

“What am I going to do with you, huh? Getting into trouble like this all the time?”

The same thing he always does. Nurse a coffee by his bedside, sleep sitting up with his legs kicked out in that incredibly uncomfortable wooden chair, run his fingers down his forearm. Smoke a cigarette or two ( or a hundred ) until they’re cleared to go. Take him home. Corral him into bed—

“You have to regulate him,” Theo says some time later, bringing up two fingers to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You know—“

“Yeah,” Worick interrupts mildly, dragging a hand down his face. “I do.”

Unimpressed, the doctor folds his arms across his chest and levels him with a rather stony stare. “Sure,” he says. “Tell me, Worick, how’s the head?”

“Fine.”

Later, at Nico’s bedside, sometime after his fifth ( or sixth, or seventh ) cigarette, he runs the pad of his index finger up the veins in his arms. Pauses just before the IV snug in the crook of his elbow.

“ _You’re lying!_ ” Wallace screams. “ _He’s not! You have to save him, he’s just a boy—Just like me! They’re monsters, they kill without—_ “

A sick part of him wants to rip it out. He huffs at the thought, turning instead to fix his gaze on the man’s face. A sicker part of him wants to smooth the crease between his brows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are these updates intensely sporadic? yes. here's something soft.

Worick swallows thickly-- shivers at the fingers that brush against the nape of his neck and then slip into his hair to grasp it.

Nicolas tugs once, feebly. _Look at me._ The IV tubes rattle dully. He tugs again. Worick squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head sideways against the hospital bed's mattress. _Look at me. I have something to say._

_"_ No," he huffs, hoarsely.

Again. Nic slips his hand lower, then reaches around to press against the front of his throat.

Worick licks his lips. "No," he says again.

The Twilight huffs. "Can...t ig-nore me."

"I can," the handyman maintains, resolutely ignoring the sensation of his partner's fingers brushing against his stubble.

Of course it isn't true-- no matter how hard Worick screws his eyes shut, the Twilight's gravelly, misused timbre would ring in his ears ( drill straight through to his skull, fall to his stomach, burst in his veins ). Nic's fingers slip higher, brush over his cheek and then pull back to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, and he has the sick urge to snap at him.

He has a lot of sick urges.

The Twilight doesn't mind, or he doesn't notice, or he has enough sense to not put in his two ( cents ). He just brushes his calloused fingers higher to massage lightly at Worick's temple.

"C... C-ome," Nicolas huffs, and the handyman's eyes flutter open, and _fuck,_ that's terrible-- deep breath, he's better than all that ( Not really, but-- ).

"Up," the Twilight finishes. He feels like he hasn't taken a breath in decades. "Bed."

The paleness of the clinic in the early light sends a shiver down his spine-- or maybe that's the chill in the air. He almost says no-- almost says _yes,_ because somehow he feels viciously exposed-- turns again to close his eyes and press his face back into the mattress at Nic's hip. His partner's fingers pause in their ministrations enough to card through his hair again. What if the good doctor sauntered in, saw him lying at a man's side-- not a man, a Twilight ( _His_ twilight. Even the thought sits bitter on the tip of his tongue. He watches Nicolas sometimes-- all the time, always has; how is he anything less than a man? ).

He exhales, slowly; rolls his shoulder and lifts his hand to rest it atop the one tangled in his hair.

"Tir-ed... Wo-rick," ( You're tired, I'm tired ). The Twilight makes no move to pull his hand away so Worick squeezes it once before he can think better of it. "Up." ( Join me, come to bed ).

_Fuck it,_ he thinks. Theo has seen far worse-- this whole city has-- and if he asks-- which he won't-- he'll say his head hurt ( it always hurts ), and he wasn't clear of mind. He takes the Twilight's hand and turns ( Imagines, belatedly, pressing his lips to the overworked palm. A brief affair, he'd blame it on exhaustion-- not like Nic would ask, anyways. He just takes and takes and takes, and the Twilight never complains ) to wedge an arm beneath himself so he can shove to his feet. He watches Nicolas, hair mussed, eyes weighted with exhaustion, slide over and lift his arm.

A blatant invitation, not just to lie together but to lie _together,_ and if feels like his heart has died in his throat and it's beyond stupid. He feels small ( he isn't small, hasn't been small for a long time ), but he gingerly climbs into the bed anyway. Doesn't bother with the blanket, only tucks himself into his partner's open side and drapes an arm over the man's chest, careful not to brush against any wounds.

He tries not to think too hard as Nic's hand finds its way back into his hair-- or how the man falls asleep almost instantly, like he was fighting the exhaustion away with the sole purpose of calling him to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soffffft. because we need some soft.

Worick rouses to the shuffling of the good doctor and his nurse-- to the itch of his stubble ( which he scratches at, blearily ) and the dull pain of his eyepatch digging into his skin. The socket is throbbing. He makes no move to get up, but he does stretch himself out and over, blanketing his partner similarly to an octopus and shoving his face into the crook of his neck. They've been found, as wired as he'd felt over it earlier he figures they might as well make the most of it now.

Theo huffs but otherwise says nothing. Nina's ministrations don't falter. Nicolas hardly even breathes ( But he can tell he's awake. Assessing. None of that invitational, sappy bullshit from last night. Not here, in front of these people ).

Something rattles and the Twilight lets out a sort of grunt-- one of distaste or displeasure, and--

"I'm sorry," Nina whispers.

The IV, he assumes. He can imagine her practiced little fingers working it apart methodically, assessing and then reassessing that everything is tucked away properly. Her cart clatters as she pushes it away-- a hand touches his face. Cold, smooth, lingers against his brow for a beat or two.

Doctor Theo sighs. "I know you're awake. Might as well let me take a look."

"There's nothing to look at."

"Then take something, you fucking masochist."

Another hand. Warm, calloused, a thumb gliding across his cheekbone and then disappearing again.

"H... urt-s."

It comes out more as a statement than a question, but he knows better. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes-- eye, whatever-- not that there's much to see, aside from the curve and dip of Nico's throat and the stubble adorning it. For whatever reason, his reply dies on his tongue.

"Of course it does," Theo responds for him. "But he's a bastard, what's new? I'll leave a few tablets on the table. Take them, Worick."

Maybe he will, maybe he wont. He wets his lips and sighs lightly.

"You're a bad influence."

Probably. Definitely. What else can he be? He's doing his best, it's all he's ever known how to do ( But maybe he can be better. Does it matter? Not really, not here ). Nico hasn't shifted aside from the touch to his face, but he can't be comfortable ( He really isn't small ) so he squeezes him a little before lifting his head, prompting the Twilight to reposition himself, and the man acquiesces without so much as a huff.

Worick wonders belatedly, without prompting, if Nicolas only ever lets himself feel anything when he's chewing Celebre like it's tobacco. Wonders if this sporadic, late night, touchy-feely shit is just a show, or a game, or a means to an end that he can't put a finger to. His stomach churns. His head is _throbbing_. He turns suddenly, and the good doctor startles-- and Nicolas secures a hand firmly around his bicep before he can do something embarrassing like tumble from the bed and sprawl onto the floor-- then settles enough feign indifference and resigns himself to watching as he palms about for the medication.

He doesn't bother with the proffered drink, just shoves them in and swallows them dry. Theo peers down at him, arms crossed and with a frown etched into his features, something like, " _Why do you insist on making every little thing harder than it needs to be?_ " and it makes him feel _small_ so he turns again to bury himself back into Nic's side. Presses his nose into the crook of his neck and resolutely does not breathe him in.

"If that's all," he sighs, gruffly ( and the doctor scoffs even before he can finish ) and closes his eyes. "We have some resting up to do."

"I'm sure," Theo concedes. "Not that it'll be enough." But he straightens and shakes out his coat so that it drapes against him better, then takes his leave.

"Nn-"

Worick blinks. Fans his palm over Nic's chest as he makes to speak.

"N-nina," he sputters-- then takes a deep breath. "Say-s... T-to... mor-row. Home."

The handyman hums his affirmation, then shifts so that his cheek is pressed to his partner's shoulder and raises his hand. He raises it first toward Nic's face, then sweeps it downward toward his chin and presses his fingers against his thumb.

The Twilight grunts. Then kicks a foot almost petulantly, with the pretense of detangling the bedding.

Worick repeats the sign, but this time ends it with a flick to his companion's nose. _Sleep._

"Di... Did. Did th-at. Already," Nic grumbles. "Awake. Wan-t... home. Work."

"We've been here for a _day,_ " he scoffs, incredulously, before remembering the Twilight can't see his face. After a moment's deliberation he shoves himself up onto his elbow, ignoring the hair that falls forward into his face in favor of taking in the downward lilt of his companion's mouth, followed by the heavy set of his eyes. "Lazy day," he says. "Lazy, _lazy,_ day. Get rest. Don't make it an order."

He lowers some-- not enough that his mouth is out of sight, but enough that his hair is framing both their faces as he frowns-- even as Nicolas' mouth twitches like he's getting ready to snap or gnash his teeth. Worick isn't in the habit of ordering him around, but the threat might as well be as good as one.

"Laa-ey da-ay," the Twilight mocks, brows drawn.

Worick parts his lips again-- 

A hand fumbles into his hair, fists the locks and then cards through them. He presses his mouth into a firm line, then screws his eyes shut as he lowers his face into his partner's shoulder, and his eyepatch gives way between them. He feels Nic's bicep contract and give beneath him, hears the patch fall faintly to the floor ( He'll have to wash it later, now ), and-- Nic's hand finds its way back into his hair, sits flush against his scalp as he pulls him more forward.

"Re-st, then..." The Twilight huffs. "No-thi-ng... to-day."

**Author's Note:**

> ( this work isn’t done but we’ll see )


End file.
